One more time
by hopper18
Summary: Batman gets a chance to live his life again, one without tragedy. But can he truly settle in this new reality?
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own Batman**

* * *

There was a breach of security in the cave.

The Dark Knight swerved his car around the second he heard the alarm and pressed his foot down hard against the gas pedal, driving full speed back to his secret base. Stomach knotting with worry, he called into the communicator.

"Alfred, are you there?"

Cursing when all he received was static, he tried again.

"Alfred, answer me".

Silence

"Damnit! Alfred! Robin! SOMEONE ANSWERS ME!"

No one seemed to have heard his pleas. Abandoning the vain attempts at communicating since it was clear that nobody was available at the moment, Batman turned his attention back to the road, wishing fervently for the power to teleport. He tried to calm himself down, pulling up a logical explanation for the lack of response. The computer system of the cave must have been damaged somehow when Tim was subduing the intruder, and that was why they couldn't reply. That must be it. He clung onto that single thought until the manor was within sight, despite the fact that all of his internal danger alert signal was going off at simultaneously. Batman drove like a mad man into the hidden passage, finally catching the sight of the cave.

His heart stopped.

The whole of his vision was drowned by the color red from the sea of flame. He jumped out of his car only to be assaulted immediately by the sting of smoke and the smell of burnt plastic. The sound of small explosions was still going off in the direction of his main computer. He staggered for several seconds, pulling his thought together before rushing into the carnage.

"ALFRED! TIM! WHERE ARE YOU?"

Smoke attacked his nose and throat, causing him to cough. He glanced around. The place bore no resemblance to the cave he left from just about two hours ago. Everything was totally wrecked. This level of destruction, it must have been explosives. There was still no sight of his butler and protégé anywhere. He had to find them! Those two was still down here the last he checked.

Batman never lost control. However, right now there was no way he could honestly say that anything in his head at the moment was rational as he dug his way through the rubble. Had he been his usual self, he would have noticed that there was something, something that didn't belong there attached to what was left of his medical table. Some sort of device that, at that moment, was still beeping faintly.

"TIM! TIM! ALFRED!" Batman shouted at the top of his voice in both desperation and panic. He still hadn't found a single living being here other than himself.

BOOM! CRASH!

He turned his head upward, watching as the most recent explosion sent the ceiling collapsing over his head. He had to get out! But he can't! Tim and Alfred would be buried alive.

The device in the corner began to glow alight, still unbeknownst to the Dark Knight. By the time he realized it, the whole cave had been enveloped in white. Then his vision went black.

* * *

**Should I continue this? There probably won't be any villain. I'm not so good with them.**


	2. Chapter 2

His vision was filled with red. Everything around him was burning. His ears could hear nothing besides the crackling of fire and electricity. He had to go. He had to get out of this place. But Alfred and Tim were still down here. He had to find them!

His legs were moving as if they had a mind of their own. Why were they taking him in that direction? There were nothing there, not anymore. He tried to pull back, but it was as if he was being dragged by someone else. He looked over his shoulder. There was nothing but fire around him, forward or behind, but back there were where Alfred and Tim were, and he was walking away from them. Then he realized he had both his arms held out on either side of him, his hands gripping something. Someone was holding his hands. But who? He saw no one but himself standing in this ruin of a cave. Why wasn't his body functioning the way he wanted? He had to stop and put out the fire, he had to find his allies, then catch the intruder. This was an emergency and he had many things to do. He dug his feet into the ground and put his whole strength into fighting that mysterious force that was still pulling him against his will. To his surprise, he did manage to halt. It was then that he saw it. An object seemed to suddenly appear out of thin air, looking so out of place against the wall of fire that he was facing. Then came the hand that was gripping it. The body. The face. He watched as a man stepped out, holding that sinister thing he recognized so well: a gun.

His mind switched to auto-pilot and he charged forward. The man fired. The bullet missed and bounced off the ground harmlessly. This routine had been repeated over and over so many time that his body just automatically do its job for him. Kicking the man's gun out of his hand. Pushing his target down onto the ground. He wasn't exactly aware why, but instead of just knocking the criminal out with one blow like he used to, he brought his fist up and punched the stranger over and over with all of his hatred. Around him, fire was still burning and he heard nothing of the new voices that were calling his name.

* * *

Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne were leading their son back to the car after exiting the theatre. They were having a good time. Martha smiled at her son spirited chatter as he held his imaginary sword and swung it around, pretending to be his hero. Thomas made his way to an alley, his family closely following him, which he knew would be a shorter road to their ride. Alfred was waiting for them back at the manor. The three was walking in a normal pace when, all of a sudden, the boy stopped moving.

"Bruce, what's wrong? Are you tired?" asked Martha.

A little concerned that they received no answer, the couple took their son's hand and the eight-year-old continued to walk, but his face was blank and he was so quiet, unlike the chatty little boy ten seconds ago. A few step later, the child started to pull away and tried to wrench his hands from his parents'.

"Bruce, what the matter?" inquired a now very worried Thomas.

His son didn't seem inclined to talk, but there was no time for an answer anyway because at that moment, a man ran into the alley, wielding what was unmistakably a gun.

"Give me all your money and jewelry, now!" the mugger shouted.

The couple had stopped dead. To encounter this kind of event when they were only a few meters away from safety. Thomas brought his arms up in surrender, but before he could do anything further, something happened that made his heart skipped several beats.

His son, whom he had purposefully covered with his body, was running toward the thug. He heard Martha screamed in terror as the gun was directed right at his child and shot. The bullet, however, didn't met its mark and Bruce just kept running. What happened next was something neither he nor his wife could believe. He watched in stunned silence as his son easily disarmed the man and forced him onto the ground. The next thing he knew, Bruce was sitting on the thug, punching him over and over without showing any signs of stopping.

"BRUCE!"

Suddenly unfrozen, Thomas and Martha ran forward, Thomas wrapped his arms around his son waist and pulling him away from the unconscious man. The little boy went limp, but as Thomas put him on the ground and peered at his face, he saw in his son's eyes something he could never forget: a look of pure anger and hopelessness.


	3. Chapter 3

"Bruce, what's wrong? Talk to me!"

Thomas must have repeated that sentence about a hundred times by now, and his son still had yet to elicit a single word. He looked up to meet the full-of-panic gaze that belonged to his wife, who was hugging her boy and rubbing his back gently in the same attempt to coax a reaction out of him. Neither of the parents had had any success.

The couple was still trying to wrap their minds around what they had just witnessed. Their precious little boy had somehow single-handedly taken down an armed man without receiving so much as a scratch. Even more disturbing was the one-sided beat down that followed (which resulted in the out-cold thug that was lying a few feet from them, all but forgotten). And in that moment, Thomas felt an emotion that he never thought he would feel when he saw his son: fear. When he met his son's eyes, what he perceived there wasn't the cheerful eight-year-old he'd always knew, but some kind of vengeful demon. And to his shame, he had unconsciously backed away. When he had managed to gather himself, Bruce was still standing where he'd left him, still, almost lifeless, staring at nothing. It was as if the boy had become a statue, and no amount of talking or shaking had managed to wake him out of his stupor. His hand unconsciously found his wife's and he received a comforting squeeze, though he could also feel those fingers shaking because Martha was scared, and he was scared, scared because there was something seriously wrong with their son and neither of them knew how to fix him.

They was quite startled at the sound of police siren. That was right, Martha called the police. Thomas had completely forgotten about it. The police car skidded to a halt outside the alley, its headlight illuminated the dark corner. Thomas stood up, his hand placed firmly on Martha's shoulder who was still holding Bruce tightly, and faced the approaching police officers. He gave them a quick account of what had happened, except that he didn't tell them the truth about who knocked out the mugger. They bought his version of event, describing how he himself had disarmed the thug to protect his wife and child. No one suspected anything, because frankly, the idea that Bruce could even do something like that was laughable. Even now, his head was still reeling just thinking about it. The officers arrested the thug and after a few words with them, Thomas persuaded them to let him drive his family home. Picking up his son, who didn't seem to even notice the contact, Thomas and Martha made their ways to their car.

* * *

The ride back home was uncomfortably silence. Thomas tried to concentrate on the road, while Martha sat Bruce in her lap and rocking him gently back and forth. The doctor thought of today, of how happy they had been when they went to see the movie. How had thing go downhill so fast?

"Thomas!"

His wife's sudden cry nearly made him steer the car off the road. As it was, he stepped on the brake to stop the ride and turned around.

"He's shaking. And I think he's mumbling something." Martha said worriedly.

Bruce was indeed shaking as if he was cold. And from the driver seat, Thomas could see his lips moving. Turning off the engine, Thomas tried to make out what his son was saying.

"Tim…Alfred…"

Again and again the boy repeated those words like some kind of mantra. Thomas exchanged a look with his wife.

"It looks like he's asking for Alfred." said Martha.

"But who is this Tim?" asked Thomas.

His wife shook her head.

"I don't know. None of his friend has a name like that."

Thomas restarted the car.

"I don't like this. Let's take him home first. I'll call some of my friends to have a look at him."

Martha nodded. That was the only thing the two of them could do for now.

* * *

Alfred came out to open the gate for them like usual.

"Welcome home, sir." the butler greeted Thomas pleasantly, unaware of what happened during the trip.

What happened next, none of them saw coming. As Martha came out of the car with Bruce, the boy caught sight of Alfred and instantly came to life. The next thing they knew, the bewildered butler had an armful of a sobbing eight-year-old crying into his shoulder.

"You're still alive!" the boy exclaimed through uncontrollable hiccups. Alfred had his arms wrapped around his young master while his face turned towards his employers with questioning eyes, his expression filled with confusion. What met him were the equally shocked features of the couple.

"You're here, that means Tim's safe, right?" the boy's voice sounded so desperate, so hopeful that even though Alfred had no idea who he was talking about, the butler still answered to soothe him.

"Of course, Master Bruce. Everyone is okay."

He could feel the boy's body sagged in relief.

"Then it was just a nightmare. Just another nightmare." Alfred heard him mumbled to himself. The butler looked at the parents, who was watching in stunned silence, searching for some answers. Unfortunately, it looked like no one who was present could offer any.

* * *

**Bruce is a bit emotional in this because he is still out of it and his mind is that of an eight year old.**


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce winced slightly as he emerged from the depth of his slumber. His head was killing him. He remained still, his eyes still closed. There was just something wrong with this-with him being in bed, though he could not quite place exactly what it was that was out of place. And…

Later, he would chalk it up to exhaustion. Now, though, he was truly, honest-to-god startled out of his senses when his Batman skills failed to alert him immediately to the presence of another person in the room who was sitting right next to him. His eyes flew open, his instincts kicked in as he jumped off the bed and turning to face the stranger with a defensive stance.

The next moment would be forever burned into his mind, just as how his parents' death had been. His heart stopped in a single instant as he took in the features of the face that greeted him, then sped up uncontrollably as recognition set in. He backed away.

"Bruce!"

What was this exactly? A hallucination? He couldn't for the life of him remember if he had come across any kind of toxin last night. What was he doing last night anyways? He could not recall.

"Bruce!" the apparition repeated, standing up from the chair where it had been settled in, one hand reaching for him in a worried manner. Every little motion matched the images in his memory so perfectly that it hurt. But there was just no way he was staring at the face of his mother.

If this was a dream or a hallucination, then it was too cruel.

Trying to swallow the lump in his suddenly very dry throat, he broke the eye contact with his "mother" and scanned the room he was in. It was his room right down to the last details. One small problem though-those details were about twenty-year-old out-of-date. Zorro and the Gray Ghost' movie posters covered the wall, the shelves filled with action figures stashed among the books and a solitary cowboy hat hung from the hanger. He knew for a fact that those things weren't there the last time he checked, and unless Alfred had been redecorating, they shouldn't be here now either.

He turned back to the woman in front of him. She gathered him into her arms. He flinched, but didn't retaliate. His face was pressed against her body. She smelled exactly the same as his mother too.

"Bruce, please, talk to me. What's wrong? Are you hurt somewhere?" she asked, her voice almost pleading. Bruce closed his eyes. This was just too much. Was this real? It certainly felt real. Either way, until he found out what was happening, he would have to play along. He had long since learned that in a scenario where nothing made sense, it was best that he became a part of it. The fighting was best left to when he had gathered enough knowledge.

Those were the lines of logic that were running through his head at that moment. Those were the reasons his mind came up with to explain why he was leaning into her touch. But another part of him, the one that was forever frozen to a stop since that shooting was the actual root of his urge to just hug his mother and never let go.

This was just too much.

He pushed his hand against Martha's warm and too real body and pulled back. Looking up at her face, he realized that she was still waiting for areply.

"I…I just had a nightmare." Yeah, just a never-ending one that lasted more than twenty years or so.

Martha frowned. Bruce could feel the tension in her movement.

"Bruce…Do you remember what happened last night?" she inquired, the hesitation clear in her voice.

Last night. Last night… He wracked his brain for an answer. What was he doing last night? What?

He reeled back as the memories surfaced. The cave. The explosions. The fire. The destruction. He swallowed, trying to think past the fear that suddenly bubbled in his stomach. That was right. The last thing he remembered was trying to find his allies in the rubbles. Was they alive? If anything happened to them…

He quickly reigned in all his emotion. If he wanted to logic his way out of this, he had to stay calm. Information, he need information, badly.

"What happened last night?" Bruce enquired his "mother", trying not to seem suspicious.

"Do you remember the bad man?" Martha asked in a soft voice.

Bad man? Bruce recalled that phrase as the way his mother used to address criminals in front of him, which encompassed everything from thieves to murderers. Still, until the night when his parents were taken from him, little Bruce Wayne had never had to interact with those people.

As his mind was scanning those data, a thought struck him with the force of lightning. It couldn't be…

"Mom, what's the date?" Bruce couldn't quite hide the tremble out of his voice. Martha looked taken aback, but answered anyways.

His suspicion was confirmed. He looked down at himself for the first time since he woke up. The thin, unmarked body of an eight-year-old stared back at him. He knew before that he had shrunk, he just didn't know by how much.

"We got mugged, didn't we?"

It wasn't really a question, and the way the arms holding him tighten their grip just a little bit was answer enough. Bruce's hands clenched into fists. If this was real. If somehow, this was really happening…

"Is dad here?" It was one of those questions that he dreaded the answer, but he had to ask.

"He is talking to the police. Do you want to see him?"

Alive then. Bruce wanted to see him, but he had to collect all the pieces of the puzzle first.

"What happened to that bad man last night?"

He saw on her face at once that she didn't want to reply to that. What he was surprised at was the fleeting flicker of fear in her eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce sat quietly on the living room sofa, waiting for his father to come home, all the while trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he once again had a father to wait for at all. His mother, another impossibility in this strange new reality, hadn't left his side for one second since he woke up. The mere sight of her stirred up something in him, some emotions that wasn't quite his wanted to see Alfred-the only constant figure in this crazy world of his so he could salvage some sense of normalcy. The Batman part of him was still collecting data and analyzing them, but the other part seemed to be close to panicking, and panicking wasn't just something he would allow himself to feel easily, Batman or Bruce Wayne. He had traveled through time before (did he mention how much he hate time-travel?) and being catapulted to another dimension wasn't exactly anything new, either (he blamed Superman for that one) so this shouldn't have affected him like thought of seeing his parents again had always brought him longing, wistfulness along with an excruciating pain as the memory of their death was dredged up anew, so of course meeting them alive for real was bound to have a massive impact on him. However, his sense of self-aware kept sending him that something-is-seriously-not-right alert. But suddenly, he just didn't want to think anymore. He just wanted his dad to come home quick so he could have a hug and he wanted to go to the kitchen so Alfred would give him something to eat and he could go out and play.

If the Dark Knight would only listen to his own thought at that moment, he would discover what his problem was. As it was though, he just continued to sit there until he heard Alfred opening the door, announcing his father's appearance. Whatever this was, it was imperative that he acted normal.

Thomas Wayne walked into the house to find his son running up to him. He scooped the eight-year-old into his arms and everything seemed almost normal again. Well, almost. He saw Martha standing there, saw her eyes and saw her need to talk, so he gently put Bruce down and sent him to his room. His son nodded quietly and obeyed without a word, which again spelled wrong because Bruce just didn't stop talking. His son loved to talk and he babbled about everything to them. To see him looking despondent just didn't sit right with him.

"You didn't see him this morning, Thomas." Martha recounted with her face in her hands "He looked at me like I was going to attack him or something. He told me he had a nightmare, but I know he was lying. And he hadn't said a word since. Can you imagine Bruce, not talking?"

At this she turned to her husband and buried her face in his shoulder.

"I'm just so worried, Thomas. I don't know what's wrong with him. He was fine yesterday, but now he acted like someone completely different, ever since he beat up that… that…"

Martha gathered herself and sat up straight, having remembered something very important that she had to ask.

"What happened to that mugger?"

Thomas sighed.

"Joe Chill. He's just a drunk. My guess is he wanted more money for alcohol, but the police hasn't been able to question him yet, he's still unconscious in the hospital." Martha gasped "He took quite a beating. Most of the hits landed on his upper body and he has a few broken bones."

Thomas turned away. He couldn't bring himself to elaborate that Chill's face suffered the heaviest damage because Bruce had sat on the mugger's chest when he beat him into submission, couldn't say that the thug's appearance wasn't looking anywhere remotely human right now because it was all swollen up, and all those injuries was inflicted with the fists of their son. But still, he knew that his wife knew and that she was thinking the same thing and that they were both remembering last night when Bruce kicked that gun right out of Chill's hand and then suddenly their sweet little boy wasn't there anymore, but something else.

"Does he remember?" asked Thomas.

"He knows we went to see a movie last night and that we was mugged. But I don't think he remember what he did." Martha looked at her husband "I just can't believe this, Thomas. Bruce doesn't know how to fight. He's never even hit anybody. But I saw it with my own eyes and… and…I just don't know anymore. What are we going to do?"

"I…I have some friends. I can see if one of them can examine him if he has any problem psychologically." Thomas suggested.

"A psychiatrist?"

Thomas nodded.

"It will be only like a friendly chat, to see if he really doesn't remember anything and if he needed help. We'll do what we can for him Martha."

* * *

Upstairs, the subject of their discussion was at his table, concentrating on some drawings on his textbook. On the pages were the images of what would be known as Batman-the caped crusader, Robin-the Boy Wonder and various other pictures of the future Nightwing, Superman… and villains such as the Riddler, Penguin, the Joker…but right now they looked like fancy Halloween costumes. He would add highly detailed profiles to them later, but right now he just stared at those faces, wondering if the future where they were meant to be even existed anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

"Bruce?"

Thomas Wayne pushed the door to his son room open. Inside, the eight-year-old was painting something on his notebook with his crayons. The look of concentration and the serious frown would have made a different effect on another face. On Bruce's, however, with his chubby little cheeks, the expression produced the very image of adorableness that Thomas couldn't help but smile. The boy lifted his head as he heard his father's voice.

"Dad?"

Thomas drew another chair and sat next to his son.

"What are you painting?" Thomas asked, pointing to the notebook. Bruce had always loved drawing. It was a common occurrence to see his son covered in paint from head to toes. What he did next, though, was very un-Bruce-like.

"Nothing." his son replied, hastily closing the notebook, glancing quickly at Thomas as if to check if he had seen anything. Thomas frowned. There hadn't been a painting that Bruce produced that he hadn't shown his mother, father or Alfred, whether a car, a dinosaur or stick figures. The child loved to wave his "masterpieces" around, beaming whenever he got a praise. Maybe he was overthinking it, but since last night Thomas had been watching his son for any subtle change, and hiding paintings had just been categorized as suspicious.

Thomas put his arm around his son's shoulder.

"Listen, Bruce." he started "A friend of mine will be coming here today for a visit, and he want to talk to you. Will you give him a few minutes, buddy?"

"What does he want to talk about?" the eight-year-old inquired, looking up at his father's face.

"He'd just like a quick friendly chat with you, Bruce."

"Will he ask me questions?"

"Only to see if you are alright, okay?" Thomas reassured. Next to him, his son had bowed his head and gone still.

* * *

Bruce, of course, had filtered through his father's for-kid-under-ten speech and deduced exactly who would pay him a visit. A psychiatrist. Just a quick diagnosis, he'd wager. His parents had rights to be worried. He didn't remember what happened last night, but judging by their behaviors and the very fact that they were alive right now, he had a few idea. And he wasn't really even THEIR Bruce. Their Bruce was this innocent little kid who knew nothing about violence and deaths, and he was a man dressed up like a flying rodent and beat up criminals at night. BIG differences. Ironically, nothing in this case guaranteed him a faster transition to Arkham than the truth.

The thoughts above were what running through the rational part of Bruce's mind. The other part-the one that he seemed to have developed since his awakening in the past-however, seemed only capable of focusing on the fact that he hated psychiatrists with a vengeance. That he loathed having someone poking around in his head, reading his thought and his emotion. That he had had enough of shrinks for a lifetime, what with Hugo Strange listed as one of his enemies. Unfortunately for Bruce, this new part of his consciousness seemed to be faster in controlling his body, for before he knew it, he was throwing a fit, stomping his feet and shouting at his father.

"I don't want to meet him! I'm NOT CRAZY. There's NOTHING wrong with me! I don't need a shrink!"

Thomas was startled and instantly alarmed. He tried to calm his son down, but Bruce didn't even seem to listen anymore. He began to kick over the furniture. Later, Bruce wouldn't remember exactly what he did, for whatever chaos he wrought in the room had been cleaned up by Alfred, but he knew that it was a temper tantrum that put those his sons had ever thrown to shame (considering that included Jason, that was saying something). When he came back to his sense, his father was holding him around the waist, trying to persuade him to let go of the bedpost he was clinging onto like a lifeline, while his mother was standing at the door, hands over her mouth.

"It's okay, Bruce. You don't have to see him if you don't want to." His father was coaxing him gently, but Bruce didn't miss the way his voice was shaking slightly. He was scaring them, Bruce realized. The fight went out of him and he went limp, letting his father cradle him to his chest. He was tired, this was his home but it was also not his home, he didn't know what was going on with himself, his parents were dead but now they were alive and he didn't know if Tim and Alfred was alive or not. Even his own personality didn't seem to be intact anymore.

All he could ground out was a frustrated sob.


	7. Chapter 7

After the whole psychiatrist fiasco, his parents didn't bring up anything related to the topic again (at least not in front of him). Bruce himself wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole, even if _maybe_ (very heavy emphasis here) a shrink would actually be useful in this situation. Nah. Bruce could already picture how that meeting would go: "My name is Bruce Wayne, and I'm actually a grown man stuck in a child body. I'm feeling a tad depressed because my dead parents are alive and I'm trying to decide if I was hallucinating or not. Oh, and at night I dress up like a rodent and fight criminals."…Yeah…no. He preferred not to be labeled crazy, thank you very much. Though some of the Justice League members might insist otherwise, he was perfectly sane (somewhere within the vast, vast multiverse, Superman sneezed). He knew it would have made his life easier if he had agreed to be checked out by his father's friend and bluff his way out, if only to convince his parents that he was fine, since he'd have had no problem talking his way around psychiatrists. The damage was already done, however, and now there was no way he could get his parents to believe he was the same little boy they'd known for eight years. But there was no use crying over spilt milk, and even if they somehow bought it, he'd still have problem pretending to be the a kid anyhow. Dick always accused him of never actually growing up; saying that he'd never really left that alley. Maybe his son was right, but if he was, then apparently being mentally stuck at eight years old didn't prove very useful if you were trying to be an actual eight years old. It had little to do with his no longer being a kid since he was eight the first time and more with the fact that he was already grown man. He doubted that it was normal for men his age to remember how to accurately act like a kid anyways.

His parents, perhaps fearing another outburst from him, didn't question him about the mugging anymore and instead tried to pretend that everything was normal. He could tell that this was temporary, though, and his parents just wanted to wait several days for him to have time to settle down before they tried to figure out what happened to their son again. He felt guilty at having worried them so much. He was nevertheless thankful for the break from all the inquiry, though, since he needed the privacy were he to figure out what kind of mess he managed to get himself into this time.

The most likely scenario so far that he could think up was time travel. This reality was too detailed, too concrete, lacking any of the usual instances of uncoordinated flashback to his deepest, darkest, most traumatic memories that he always experienced in the aftermath of a heavy dose of Scarecrow fear gas, nor did it possess the inconsistency that accompanied the world of dream. His age wasn't something fabricated, since he could clearly feel that every muscle on his body truly did belong to an untrained eight years old and not the vigilante who has spent nearly twenty years honing his fighting prowess. Everything here seemed like they stepped right out of his memories: the smell of his mother's perfume, his father's voice, the manor as it was before – bright and cozy. If these things were made up from information taken out of his head, they would not have been as clear. It pained him to acknowledge it, but after so many years, he could no longer recall the little details about his parents. No matter how many hours he spent searching through his own mind, he could not remember his mother's face as she smiled, his father's eyes when he told him how much he loved him... The passage of time had taken them all from him as it flowed, leaving him only his motivation: the gunshot, the sound of his parents' bodies hitting the ground, the blood dripping from his mother's necklace as he held the string in his hand and sat there for hours. It was those that stayed vivid in his mind as well as his nightmare no matter how many years had passed. He felt guilty for forgetting the way his parents lived, for not treasuring them, and it wasn't until he had been flung into whatever-this-place-was that he truly remembered how precious those memories was.

But if this was truly time travel, then what? The first rule of time travel: DON'T MEDDLE WITH ANYTHING written in capital letters and underlined will be found if the League members searched through Justice League guide book. Well, sorry to whoever wrote that rule (oh wait, it was him), that boat had already sailed. His parents sitting downstairs was proof of that. This was what he had wanted all his life, wasn't it? To have his parents back? He should be happy, right? He'd finally gotten his wish, the one that just a few days ago, he thought that he would have given anything for it to be granted. So why was he laying here, feeling a profound sense of loss when he thought of the life he might now never get back?


End file.
